Finally, the wall turned a corner, leading away from her, which was a surprise. She began to wonder if this search wasn’t becoming foolhardy. How much further should she explore, hugging the wall for security’s sake but getting further and further away from the door? Should she take a chance and step out into the dark, featureless fog, hoping her sense of direction would guide her back to the place she’d come from? No, that wasn’t sensible. She decided on the more conservative option. She simply turned on her heel and, putting the wall that had been on her left on her right, returned the way she’d come. Her only concession to risk was to venture perhaps six or seven yards from the wall, which put it at the limit of her sight, given the density of the mist. In this manner she proceeded tentatively back the way she’d come.
The trek back to the door was not the uneventful journey the outward bound trip had been. She’d taken perhaps five strides from the turnabout spot when she heard the whooping clamor of ghosts, and a body of them — smeared together in their grief, melded, it seemed, into one furious being — appeared from the fog. Their faces were bitter: turned down mouths and burning, cold blue eyes like the luminous eyes of deep-sea fish.
She’d not been terrified of them at the threshold, but she was terrified now. Not because they would see her and recognize her and blame her for the absence of their consolation, but because they could catch her up in their momentum, and carry her away with them. She instinctively dropped to the ground as they approached, and they moved on past her, wailing and cursing. She heard cracking sounds as they passed by, and when they’d gone she saw that the tiles which they’d passed over had shattered.
She stayed pressed on the ground, while the fog roiled around her, afraid that they’d come back.
They didn’t return, thank God; but it was clear that this wasn’t a safe place to be. She could hear other packs of ghosts roving around in the fog, making their own terrifying din. The fog, she assumed, had delayed their full realization that this place was a shadow of its former self. That was why some of them kept on searching, hoping that the power they’d fed on in the good old days was still here somewhere. Of course it was not; and by degrees the bitter word was spreading, so that each of the groups searching the room slowly grasped the disastrous truth. And as soon as they did they went crazy.
“Tammy?”
She looked up. Close to the ground the fog thinned somewhat, and she could see twice as far as she could see when standing. And there, at the limit of her vision, lying on the ground like her (and probably for the same reason) was Jerry Brahms.
“Oh thank God … ”
There was a dark smear on his face, which she guessed was blood. Otherwise, he seemed to be all right. He crawled towards her on his belly, like a soldier under fire. As she approached she saw that the smear was indeed blood, its source the patch of skin which Katya had torn out of his scalp. When he reached her he caught hold of her hand.
“My dear, thank the Lord you’re still alive. I feared the worst, I truly did. Somebody let the ghosts in.”
“That was me.”
“In God’s name why?”
“Because Todd wanted me to,” she said. It wasn’t the whole truth, of course, but it was enough for now.
“Where is Todd?”
She looked away from him, just for a moment. It was all she needed to do.
“Oh Lord, no. Not my Todd.”
“She stabbed him — ”
“Katya stabbed him? Why?”
“It’s too complicated … ”
“Well, later then. Where’s Katya now?”
“I think she’s in here somewhere.”
“So why did you come down?”
“Why’d you think? To find you.”
“Oh you sweet … ” He grasped her hand hard.
“Now can we please go? ” she said.
“Do you know the way to the door?”